POW Pals
by CapNicholls
Summary: Soda and Steve are in a POW camp in Vietnam. This happened when one of my friends and I had a fanfiction write-off and the prompt was POWs. It's completely unrealistic. You have been warned. The title just happened because I couldn't think of anything else. Sorry. Feel free to PM me about how awful it is. Also, I think there's some typos in there...oh well.


I start towards him, but one of their soldiers shouts at me, and while I can't understand a word he's saying, I can sure understand the rifle being pointed at my face.

"Okay, alright," I say, raising my hands above my head. "I just wanted to-"

More shouting, more rifle-pointing, and I can see his finger tighten on the trigger, so I sit back down. As soon as his back's turned, though, I cross the room, limping slightly because of the gash in my leg, and sit next to Steve. His head's leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, and he's so pale that for a terrifying second I think he's dead - but when I say his name, his eyes snap open, wild.

"Easy," I say, and he finally focuses on me. The tense look doesn't leave his face though. I don't think it ever will. "How's your arm?" I saw a chunk of shrapnel hit him right before our officer called the surrender. He was bleeding pretty badly, but there wasn't anything I could do about it as we got marched back to their side and taken to one of their run-down offices.

"Just peachy, why?" He grunts, and I grin, feeling the mud that's caked on my face crack. I take hold of his arm and peel away the torn part of the sleeve, dried blood coming with it, and examine the wound. I'm no doctor, but it looks bad. It's been hours since he got hit, but it's still oozing blood. I see a dull piece of metal jutting out of the wound - not as big as I'd thought, but not exactly small either.

"You've got to get that out and cleaned," I say, and he laughs mirthlessly.

"And who're you thinkin' could do that? I ain't seen Jake-" Jake is the med- "anywhere, and it ain't like they're gonna let him to a full-blown operation for one'a their POWs."

POWs. That's what we are now, I guess. I hadn't really thought about it before. I'd honestly thought they were going to shoot us and leave us lying in the mud - that's what they'd been doing up until the surrender, after all.

Steve lets out a growl and slaps my hand away, making me realize I've been absently poking at the shrapnel in his arm as my mind wandered. "Sorry."

It isn't long before one of their officers yells at us in broken English to 'line up for papers.'

 _Name, rank, and serial number, boys_ , I can almost hear General Martin saying as I stand up. _That's all you ever tell 'em, no matter what else they try to force out of you._

General Martin - The Martian, as the other officers called him. We did, too, behind his back, but affectionately. He was like a father to most of us, and God only knows how long I've been without one of those.

But now he's dead.

The officer behind the wooden table shouts, "Next!", and I step forward.

"Sodapop Curtis, Private, 79578893."

He stops writing and glances up at me, then says something I can't understand to one of the soldiers standing next to him. The soldier nods, and the officer looks back at me. "Real name?"

I'm nineteen years old, and I'm still getting asked if Sodapop is my real name. In the middle of a war, no less. "That _is_ my real name."

He points his pen towards the soldier next to him. "He say 'soda' is drink."

"It is, but it's also me."

"Cannot be you."

For the love of- "Look, put down Patrick. That's my middle name."

He looks at me for a long moment, then goes back to writing. "I use 'Sodapop'."

The soldier next to him gestures me to the right with his rifle, and I join the rest of my unit as we wait for the last few of us to get registered.

"Next!"

"Steve Randle, Private, and none of your-"

He's about to cuss them out. "Steve-" I say, shooting him a warning look, and suddenly I hear a sharp 'crack!' and feel a splitting pain along my temple. I barely have time to register what happened when a large hand grabs the front of my uniform, yanking me up, and then I'm staring into the face of a huge, mean-looking soldier with a scar from his cheekbone to his jawline.

"No speaking," he hisses, and I feel a drop of spit hit my face. It takes everything in me not to wipe it off and spit back. He shakes me roughly, sending a shot of pain through my leg. "Understand, American?"

"Yes sir." I really didn't want to add the 'sir', but something told me if I didn't, I probably wouldn't like what happened.

He shoves me away, and I see a gleam of smug triumph in his eyes. He enjoys his job.

"Okay?" Steve's standing next to me, eyeing up the soldier, scowling.

"Yeah." I can feel a small trickle of blood running down my face, but it's nothing serious. I sigh. This whole POW thing isn't going to be fun.

* * *

It's past eleven when they finally get us all registered, and then they take us to the barracks. They're small and cramped, little more than huts, really, but they manage to stuff about twenty of us into one. There aren't enough bunks to go around, and Steve flat-out refuses to share one with anyone, so he ends up on the floor next to mine. I'd give him my blanket if I had one - if it's cold in the bunk, it must be freezing on the floor - but they didn't give us any.

I tried asking earlier about getting someone to look at Steve's arm, but I'd just gotten yelled at and punched pretty good across the face. Steve keeps saying his arm's fine, but it's not. We've got to get the shrapnel out of it somehow...

"Wonder what they'll do to us next," Steve grumbles, quietly, as so not to disturb the rest of the soldiers, who're trying to sleep, and I lean my head over the edge of the too-small mattress to look down at him.

"Betcha they find out what great guys we are and call off the war," I say, to get a smile out of him, and it works. Only barely, but it works.

"Betcha they kill us off tomorrow."

People always wonder why Steve and I are best friends, since he's usually always in a bad mood and I'm rarely ever in one. But that's kind of why we're buddies - I keep him slightly insane and he keeps me grounded. Most of the time. Sometimes him being a pessimist (he calls himself a 'realist,' not a 'pessimist') is a good thing. But right now, when our lives could literally be on the line, it's not so much.

"Hey." I lean down and am about to slug his shoulder, but remember the gash in it and stop. "Cheer up, pal. You're depressing me."

"This is what I'm here for." He shifts to his side and pretends to be asleep. But we're both awake for hours, wondering what tomorrow has in store.

* * *

I can't believe it. "How'd you get here? I thought you were running away to Canada!"

He shrugs, the old spark of mischief coming back into his eyes as he gives me a Cheshire-cat grin. "I was gonna. But then I figured I shouldn't let you two have all the fun."

"Who's havin' fun?" Steve grumbles beside us, but he gives Two-Bit a one-armed hug.

"Steve!" Two-Bit exclaims, feigning surprise. "Can it be? Are you - actually showing affection?!"

Steve promptly breaks away, rolling his eyes and making a snarky remark, but Two-Bit's right - I mean, the only time Steve's ever hugged even me was right after Mom and Dad had died. For some reason, the fact that he's showing he cares makes our situation here seem more ominous, like we might all be dead by tonight.

"Hey-" Two-Bit's voice suddenly cuts through my thoughts- "what happened to your arm?"

"Shrapnel. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." Being in the army gave Two-Bit a more subdued air. He still has his trademark grin, but you can tell he's not the same. He's more…serious. Man, that's not a word I ever thought I'd use to describe _him_. "Let me see it."

"You'll end up tearing my arm off."

"No I won't. Just let me look at it."

"What do you know about war wounds?"

"A lot." Two-Bit's suddenly quiet, and I barely hear him over the soldier's voices in the mess hall. He's staring at Steve's arm, but he's not seeing it. He's thinking. Remembering.

Steve has the sense to shut up as Two-Bit stays lost in his thoughts for a minute. Finally, still staring, he says, "They made me help in the medical tent for a while."

Steve and I don't say anything, but I don't have to look at him to know he's as shocked as I am. I mean, Two-Bit, helping out a doctor? But then I remember: Health and Biology were the only classes he ever did well in. And he _did_ do well. Now, though, by the almost sick look on his face, I can tell he regrets it.

"I didn't do much," he goes on. "Just mostly handed them scalpels and stuff. Bandaged up soldiers." Finally he comes back to the present and gives Steve a hard look. "But, hard as I tried not to learn anything during my army experience, I picked up a few things. Now let me see your arm."

Steve is as unused to this new, firmer Two-Bit as I am, and complies. Two-Bit's brow furrows and he shakes his head. "That's in there pretty deep... How long?"

"Last night. Right before the surrender."

"Over twelve hours," Two-Bit mutters, looking slightly worried. "You've got to get it cleaned. Now. You'll be lucky if you don't get gangrene."

"Well, like I told Sodapop," Steve snaps, "we don't exactly have a surgeon on our hands to get it out without amputating my whole arm. So what d'you want us to do?"

Two-Bit takes a deep breath. "I've been here for a few weeks. I know where the medical unit is."

"And…" Steve's brow furrows, like he knows what's coming and doesn't like it.

"And…I can sneak some stuff."

"No. You ain't operatin' on me, Two-Bit."

"Steve, shrapnel isn't like a splinter, where you can just leave it in and it won't amount to anything. Okay? This is bad. _Really_ bad. It's me digging it out or you…" He doesn't finish, but we all know what he's thinking.

Steve's jaw is clenched as he and Two-Bit stare at each other, but he finally gives in, looking away.

"Fine."

Two-Bit sort of nods. "Okay."

It's quiet for a second before I say, "When are we gonna do this? And _how_?"

"Tonight," Two-Bit says. "Meet me behind my barracks - A14. I'll get the stuff we'll need."

* * *

The rest of the day passes in a blur. For the most part, the Vietnamese soldiers leave us alone, which I find strange. We sort of just wander aimlessly around, exploring the boundaries of the camp, looking through the barbed-wire fence to the bleak land around us. A shrill bell sounds in the evening, calling us back to the mess hall for bowls of watery soup and what I think is supposed to be bread.

"And today, for somesing special, ve 'ave bread a la mold, vith just a bit of vatered-down vater to dip it in!" It gets a half-hearted smile out of Steve, but he's anxious about tonight, I can tell. Two-Bit's nowhere to be seen; he must have managed to sneak out and into the med's office to swipe some stuff.

There's a roll-call later that night and it seems to last forever, but finally everyone's in their barracks. It's pitch-dark when Steve and I slip out the back window, trying to avoid any soldiers that might be out on duty. We press our backs flat against the wall of one of the barracks, trying to stay as still and silent as possible when we hear footsteps coming towards us, but they die away in a second, and we finally reach A14. We circle around the back and don't even see Two-Bit until he holds up a palm-sized flashlight. The bulb in it's kind of dim, but we can't attract the attention of any soldiers. And it should be bright enough for whet Two-Bit has to do. I can see a bag lying on the ground next to him, and he pulls out a wicked-looking scalpel as we sit down. After assuring us he's sterilized it, he looks at Steve. "Ready, Randle?"

Steve nods, looking slightly sick, and I'm glad to see Two-Bit even managed to steal a pair of those surgeon gloves. Just so long as long as they're not used.

"Bite your other sleeve to keep from yelling," he tells Steve, who does as he's told, then Two-Bit looks at me. In the moonlight, he looks a sickly greenish-grey. "You're gonna have to hold him steady." He puts the handle of the flashlight in his mouth so he has both hands to work with and peels away the torn material from around the gash in Steve's arm.

I stay behind Steve, grabbing his shoulders, and I can feel how tensed up he is. "Easy, buddy," I say quietly. I can't see what Two-Bit's doing, but I can tell when he starts to cut - Steve sucks in a sharp breath before omitting an involuntary pained noise. He sounds so much like an injured animal that it almost hurts to hear it.

"Hey," I whisper, squeezing his shoulders, "remember that time we took Evie and Sandy to that dance?" Talking about Sandy still gives me the slightest ache, but I'll put up with it if it'll keep Steve distracted. "And that guy starting flirting with Evie and we got kicked out 'cause you started a fight with him?"

He unclenches his teeth long enough to say, "At least I won," in a strained voice. I grin slightly and go on quietly, bringing up every good - if not wild - memory I can think of to keep Steve's mind off the pain, and finally Two-Bit whispers, "Done."

"You get it out?" I ask him, and he holds up a small, bloody scrap of metal, looking both relieved and tired at the same time. "Got it out. Cleaned it up and bandaged it best I could. Here." He reaches into his shirt pocket as I let go of Steve, and hands me a small bag of what looks like white pills. "It'll help with the pain. I could only take a couple, though, or else they'd suspect something."

"Thanks." Exhaustion suddenly hits me, and all I want to do is sleep. Steve takes the bag from me and downs one of the pills as Two-Bit shuts off the flashlight and stumbles to his unit's quarters.

"Okay, Stevie?" I ask, and he nods, but I can tell it hurts a heck of a lot more than he's letting on. "C'mon." I can feel him shaking ever so slightly as I grab his good arm and lead him back towards our barracks.

* * *

I hadn't thought it'd be this bad.

One of the soldiers had caught us right as we were sneaking into our barracks, and we'd spent the rest of the night in the camp's jail cell. Bright and early this morning, we were taken before the head officer of the camp, who gave directions to the soldier guarding us, but they weren't in English, and I had no idea what he said.

I do now.

We'd been led at gunpoint to the far edge of the camp, where there were large metal boxes lined up. I'd thought they were for ammunition the first time I saw them, but now I could see a small, thin opening in one side of each. I didn't have time to wonder about it, though, because the soldier unlocked two of them, looked at me and Steve, and said, "In."

We stared at him. He couldn't be serious. He gestured with his rifle. "In!"

What could we do? We got in.

The lid closed above me, making everything dark except for a strip of sunlight that came in from the opening in the side of the box. Then I realized the boxes weren't as big as they looked - I was cramped and already wondering when they were going to let us out.

I heard the other lid slam and Steve swear loudly. I closed my eyes and groaned. There's a reason I work under the body of the cars at the DX and Steve only works under the hood - he's got claustrophobia. The first - and last - time he'd tried working on the braking system of a Corvair that'd come into the shop, he'd come back out less than ten seconds later, ran to the waste can, and vomited. No one else knew about it, not even the manager of the DX, but I've known for so long I'd forgotten.

"Steve?" I could hear him muttering curses, his breathing getting loud, panicked. "Steve, just close your eyes. Stretch out as much as you can. You'll be okay - they'll let us out soon."

That was hours ago.

I lean my head against the side box, feeling a drip of sweat trickle down my neck. My throat feels like sandpaper. I wonder if Steve has those pills Two-Bit gave him - his arm's probably killing him - but I doubt he'll be able to get them down if his mouth's as dry as mine.

"Steve?" I force out. "You alright?"

It's quiet for a second, then, "Yeah." So low I barely hear it, and I don't have the energy to say anymore. He's calmed down now - in the beginning, for what seemed like a full hour, he was banging on the sides, kicking them, trying to figure out a way to get out. But his poundings finally died down and he's been quiet for the longest time. I call over to him every now just to make sure he's okay. This is so unlike Steve - he always goes down fighting. Him being this quiet…it's like they _broke_ him.

Glory, will they ever let us out of here? There's gotta be some sort of law against this. A thought drifts across my mind: _All's fair in love and war_. Where the heck did that come from? Sounds like a line outta one of those novels Pony likes to read.

Ponyboy. Gosh, I miss him. And Darry. I wonder what they're doing right now. Hopefully something more exciting - and less painful - than sitting in a metal box in ninety-degree weather.

I slap at a mosquito that flew through the opening in the box and think back to the last letter I wrote them, about a week ago. I'd made everything sound better than it was, of course - was I supposed to tell them the truth _? I can't even remember the last time I've had a real shower - I'm so caked with mud that all those girls that pay to go to the salon and get mud masks would be jealous_. I can imagine their reactions: Darry rolling his eyes and Pony laughing.

 _If anybody's got any sense, the war'll be over soon and I'll be home within a week. You'd better have a giant welcome home party for us. Miss you two. Love you. Soda._

I usually don't end my letters like that. Saying I love them, I mean. But if it's my lot in life to die in a hot, sweaty, metal box, then I'm glad I let them know.

Suddenly I hear someone fumbling with the lock and the lid swings open on its hinges. I shut my eyes - the light's blinding, and I hear a voice snap, "Out!"

I open my eyes a crack, just enough to see what I'm doing, and climb out. My knees buckle under me after going so long without use, and I lean on the box for support. In a second, my eyes are adjusted to the brightness and I see Steve turning away from the sun, slumping on the edge of his box.

"Up!" The soldier, I now see, is the same one that hit me with his rifle during registration. He's even meaner-looking in daylight. I get to my feet, swaying slightly, then reach out a hand to Steve, who ignores it and staggers to his feet on his own. The soldier digs his rifle into my spine and I stumble forward - but Steve doesn't go quite so easily. In a split second, one of his fists is flying at the soldier's face and the other is wrenching the gun out of the soldier's hands. Then the soldier's on the ground, Steve on top of him, pounding the living daylights out of him

For a second, I just stand there, staring in shock. How in the world is Steve fighting a guy that's got at least thirty pounds on him? I'm barely standing. I take back what I said. They didn't break him. And if that didn't, nothing will.

I suddenly come back to myself when the soldier's meaty fist connects with the side of Steve's head, knocking him away. I start towards them but it's too late: the soldier scrambles under his jacket, pulling out a pistol, and fires before I make it two steps.

I hear an animal-like scream and realize the sound came from me. He shot Steve. _He shot my best friend_.

My fist is connecting with the soldier's jaw before I have time to think, and then I'm swinging wildly, hitting any part of him I can. I can hear him yelling at me, trying to get his gun up to shoot me, but I manage to knock it away and land a blow to the side of his head, making him stumble back, blood pouring into his eye. I take the moment and run to Steve, skidding on my knees to a stop next to him. He's lying on the ground, coughing up blood, trying to suck in air.

"Steve-" I can see where the bullet hit - right next to his heart. I tear off my uniform's jacket and ball it up, pressing it against the wound. He lets out a groan, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Don't close your eyes," I say. It's no use, me trying to stop the flow of blood. It just keeps coming, and there's nothing I can do. I swear loudly before saying, "Don't you dare die on me, Steve."

"Too late," he says, his words slurring, and I feel my eyes burning. I toss away my jacket and pull him upright so he's leaned against me, wrapping my arms around him as tightly as I can, as if I can somehow keep him alive. "If you die, I'm gonna kill you."

"Guess you just can't handle the Randle," I hear him mumble, and I half-laugh, half-sob.

"Please don't, Steve." I'm begging now, hugging him fiercely. "Please…"

No answer, and I feel him go limp. No. Not him too. Please not him too…

I hear the cock of a pistol, but I don't even care as I sit there, holding my best friend's body, sobs racking my frame.

"You should've given up, American," I hear the soldier hiss, more hatred in his voice than I've ever heard. And then he pulls the trigger.

* * *

 _Ta-daa! Like I said, completely unrealistic. Oh well._


End file.
